Mort

ice.
    “Mort,” he said.
    I T SPEAKS ! W HAT DOES IT SAY ?
    “You could let them go,” said Mort. “They just got involved. It wasn’t their fault. You could rearrange this so—”
    W HY SHOULD I DO THAT ? T HEY BELONG TO ME NOW .
    “I’ll fight you for them,” said Mort.
    V ERY NOBLE . M ORTALS FIGHT ME ALL THE TIME . Y OU ARE DISMISSED .
    Mort got to his feet. He remembered what being Death had been like. He caught hold of the feeling, let it surface….
    No, he said.
    A H . Y OU CHALLENGE ME AS BETWEEN EQUALS, THEN ?
    Mort swallowed. But at least the way was clear now. When you step off a cliff, your life takes a very definite direction.
    “If necessary,” he said. “And if I win—”
    I F YOU WIN, YOU WILL BE IN A POSITION TO DO WHATEVER YOU PLEASE , said Death. F OLLOW ME .
    He stalked past Mort and out into the hall.
    The other four looked at Mort.
    “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” said Cutwell.
    “No.”
    “You can’t beat the master,” said Albert. He sighed. “Take it from me.”
    “What will happen if you lose?” said Keli.
    “I won’t lose,” said Mort. “That’s the trouble.”
    “Father wants him to win,” said Ysabell bitterly.
    “You mean he’ll let Mort win?” said Cutwell.
    “Oh, no, he won’t let him win. He just wants him to win.”
    Mort nodded. As they followed Death’s dark shape he reflected on an endless future, serving whatever mysterious purpose the Creator had in mind, living outside Time. He couldn’t blame Death for wanting to quit the job. Death had said the bones were not compulsory, but perhaps that wouldn’t matter. Would eternity feel like a long time, or were all lives—from a personal viewpoint—entirely the same length?
    Hi, said a voice in his head. Remember me? I’m you. I got you into this.
    “Thanks,” he said bitterly. The others glanced at him.
    You could come through this, the voice said. You’ve got a big advantage. You’ve been him, and he’s never been you.
    Death swept through the hall and into the Long Room, the candles obediently flicking into flame as he entered.
    A LBERT .
    “Master?”
    F ETCH THE GLASSES .
    “Master.”
    Cutwell grabbed the old man’s arm.
    “You’re a wizard,” he hissed. “You don’t have to do what he says!”
    “How old are you, lad?” said Albert, kindly.
    “Twenty.”
    “When you’re my age you’ll see your choices differently.” He turned to Mort. “Sorry.”
    Mort drew his sword, its blade almost invisible in the light from the candles. Death turned and stood facing him, a thin silhouette against a towering rack of hourglasses.
    He held out his arms. The scythe appeared in them with a tiny thunderclap.
    Albert came back down one of the glass-lined alleys with two hourglasses, and set them down wordlessly on a ledge on one of the pillars.
    One was several times the size of the ordinary glasses—black, thin and decorated with a complicated skull-and-bones motif.
    That wasn’t the most unpleasant thing about it.
    Mort groaned inwardly. He couldn’t see any sand in there.
    The smaller glass beside it was quite plain and unadorned. Mort reached for it.
    “May I?” he said.
    B E MY GUEST .
    The name Mort was engraved on the top bulb. He held it up to the light, noting without any real surprise that there was hardly any sand left. When he held it to his ear he thought he could hear, even above the ever-present roar of the millions of lifetimers around him, the sound of his own life pouring away.
    He put it down very carefully.
    Death turned to Cutwell.
    M R . W IZARD, SIR, YOU WILL BE GOOD ENOUGH TO GIVE US A COUNT OF THREE .
    Cutwell nodded glumly.
    “Are you sure this couldn’t all be sorted out by getting around a table—” he began.
    N O .
    “No.”
    Mort and Death circled one another warily, their reflections flickering across the banks of hourglasses.
    “One,” said Cutwell.
    Death spun his scythe menacingly.
    “Two.”
    The blades met in mid-air with a noise like a cat sliding down a pane of glass.
    “They both cheated!” said Keli. Ysabell nodded. “Of course,” she said.
    Mort jumped back, bringing the sword round in a too-slow arc that Death easily deflected, turning the parry into a wicked low sweep that Mort avoided only by a clumsy standing jump.
    Although the scythe isn’t preeminent among weapons of war, anyone who has been on the wrong end of, say, a peasants’ revolt will know that in skilled hands it is fearsome. Once its owner gets it